Complete Works

a charm against the ghosts and am not afraid.  God is great!”
    A fresh outburst of noisy grief from Mrs. Almayer checked the flow of Mahmat’s eloquence.  Almayer, bewildered, looked in turn at his wife, at Mahmat, at Babalatchi, and at last arrested his fascinated gaze on the body lying on the mud with covered face in a grotesquely unnatural contortion of mangled and broken limbs, one twisted and lacerated arm, with white bones protruding in many places through the torn flesh, stretched out; the hand with outspread fingers nearly touching his foot.
    “Do you know who this is?” he asked of Babalatchi, in a low voice.
    Babalatchi, staring straight before him, hardly moved his lips, while Mrs. Almayer’s persistent lamentations drowned the whisper of his murmured reply intended only for Almayer’s ear.
    “It was fate.  Look at your feet, white man.  I can see a ring on those torn fingers which I know well.”
    Saying this, Babalatchi stepped carelessly forward, putting his foot as if accidentally on the hand of the corpse and pressing it into the soft mud.  He swung his staff menacingly towards the crowd, which fell back a little.
    “Go away,” he said sternly, “and send your women to their cooking fires, which they ought not to have left to run after a dead stranger.  This is men’s work here.  I take him now in the name of the Rajah.  Let no man remain here but Tuan Almayer’s slaves.  Now go!”
    The crowd reluctantly began to disperse.  The women went first, dragging away the children that hung back with all their weight on the maternal hand.  The men strolled slowly after them in ever forming and changing groups that gradually dissolved as they neared the settlement and every man regained his own house with steps quickened by the hungry anticipation of the morning rice.  Only on the slight elevation where the land sloped down towards the muddy point a few men, either friends or enemies of Mahmat, remained gazing curiously for some time longer at the small group standing around the body on the river bank.
    “I do not understand what you mean, Babalatchi,” said Almayer.  “What is the ring you are talking about?  Whoever he is, you have trodden the poor fellow’s hand right into the mud.  Uncover his face,” he went on, addressing Mrs. Almayer, who, squatting by the head of the corpse, rocked herself to and fro, shaking from time to time her dishevelled grey locks, and muttering mournfully.
    “Hai!” exclaimed Mahmat, who had lingered close by.  “Look, Tuan; the logs came together so,” and here he pressed the palms of his hands together, “and his head must have been between them, and now there is no face for you to look at.  There are his flesh and his bones, the nose, and the lips, and maybe his eyes, but nobody could tell the one from the other.  It was written the day he was born that no man could look at him in death and be able to say, ‘This is my friend’s face.’”
    “Silence, Mahmat; enough!” said Babalatchi, “and take thy eyes off his anklet, thou eater of pigs flesh.  Tuan Almayer,” he went on, lowering his voice, “have you seen Dain this morning?”
    Almayer opened his eyes wide and looked alarmed.  “No,” he said quickly; “haven’t you seen him?  Is he not with the Rajah?  I am waiting; why does he not come?”
    Babalatchi nodded his head sadly.
    “He is come, Tuan.  He left last night when the storm was great and the river spoke angrily.  The night was very black, but he had within him a light that showed the way to your house as smooth as a narrow backwater, and the many logs no bigger than wisps of dried grass.  Therefore he went; and now he lies here.”  And Babalatchi nodded his head towards the body.
    “How can you tell?” said Almayer, excitedly, pushing his wife aside.  He snatched the cover off and looked at the formless mass of flesh, hair, and drying mud, where the face of the drowned man should have been.  “Nobody can tell,” he added, turning away with a shudder.
    Babalatchi was on his knees wiping the mud from the stiffened fingers of the outstretched hand.  He rose to his feet and flashed before Almayer’s eyes a gold ring set with a large green stone.
    “You know this well,” he said.  “This never left Dain’s hand.  I had to tear the flesh now to get it off.  Do you believe now?”
    Almayer raised his hands to his head and let them fall listlessly by his side in the utter abandonment of